Again his body moved, taking advantage of the physical as
well as metaphysical reinforcement of the rope, using it to swing
his leg up so that his knees bent and landed on either side of his
captor’s stunned face, caught in a sudden vice grip as Brian locked
his thighs together. The man’s eyes grew wide as he was suddenly
faced with the close proximity of that filthy little penis he’d found so
distasteful. Brian glared down at him, and his feeling of triumph
made him pause and savor the look of terror.
That’s when he made his mistake. In that moment of
hesitation, perched like a raptor over with his hands held high
over his head, the man recovered just a little of his presence of
mind. Just a little. Just enough to lift the hand that was still
holding the needle up and drive it into Brian’s thigh.
If Brian had been asked to articulate what he
thought he was doing when he had trapped the man in his thighs, he
would have probably thought of something along the lines of choking
the man into unconsciousness. Instead, as he saw the needle rise up
and plunge into him, he twisted away from it… and heard the
crackling pops as the man’s neck snapped. His body was suddenly
pulled straight as the corpse that he now held between his thighs
thudded with a wet smack into the floor.
His hands were still bound tight by the rope, which
was somehow becoming dimmer in his awareness, like sheets of gauze
were being pulled over his mind, one by one. It didn’t bother him
at all. The cold silence of the room, the man dead at his feet, the
needle now dangling out of his left thigh, none of it was worrisome
in the slightest. Not knowing how or even if he was going to find a
way out didn’t cause the slightest concern.
In fact, his face was stuck in a wide, happy grin,
as the waves of warm hot pleasure began spreading from his thigh.
He felt great, better than he’d ever felt before. And knowing that
it was that black liquid that had done it to him, that was now
spreading its malignance through his bloodstream, it just made him
smile all the more, because he felt fan-fucking-tastic.
“Sullivan… ” he whispered softly, into the dark.
“Somebody… need a little help here.” And then giggled, because he
couldn’t help himself.
And that was the most horrifying thing of all.
Whispers in the dark. He’s not really hearing them,
he’s not really hearing anything, there’s nothing but his breathing
through the rope. His mind has travelled along the line up and out
of the miasma of pleasure the drug forced on him and lies somewhere
near the roof beams of the warehouse.
How did he know there was a warehouse?
He knows all the warehouse now,
from where he is on the top of the rope. There’s not much room up
here, certainly not enough for coherent thought, but that’s ok, he
can just be up there, not having to think about the what he’s been
through, what he’s done, what the future ( daughters, what about… ) may hold,
he can just be there on the rope. Far away from that person down
below, swaying against the tension in his arms, trying to keep his
legs from buckling underneath him.
His shoulders are starting to ache, but that’s a
good thing, because it’s not pleasure, it doesn’t feel good, and
that’s wonderful. He’s tired of feeling good, and would like to be
able to truly feel as crappy as he knows his body has earned. But
there’s still that drowning tide of nebulous pleasure that coats
him like oil, and is so very, very slow to drip off…
Whispers again, turning to shouts.
He doesn’t want to think, because thinking is hard when he’s on the
rope, and if he has to come down the rope, he’ll lose this nice
sense of being, of not having to worry about what comes next. Then
he feels the hands on his body, and suddenly he is aware of steel
approaching, of someone slicing suddenly into the rope, and he
moans a soft protest. Too late, the tails lose their tense life and
slither down the side of the beam to thud
well as metaphysical reinforcement of the rope, using it to swing
his leg up so that his knees bent and landed on either side of his
captor’s stunned face, caught in a sudden vice grip as Brian locked
his thighs together. The man’s eyes grew wide as he was suddenly
faced with the close proximity of that filthy little penis he’d found so
distasteful. Brian glared down at him, and his feeling of triumph
made him pause and savor the look of terror.
That’s when he made his mistake. In that moment of
hesitation, perched like a raptor over with his hands held high
over his head, the man recovered just a little of his presence of
mind. Just a little. Just enough to lift the hand that was still
holding the needle up and drive it into Brian’s thigh.
If Brian had been asked to articulate what he
thought he was doing when he had trapped the man in his thighs, he
would have probably thought of something along the lines of choking
the man into unconsciousness. Instead, as he saw the needle rise up
and plunge into him, he twisted away from it… and heard the
crackling pops as the man’s neck snapped. His body was suddenly
pulled straight as the corpse that he now held between his thighs
thudded with a wet smack into the floor.
His hands were still bound tight by the rope, which
was somehow becoming dimmer in his awareness, like sheets of gauze
were being pulled over his mind, one by one. It didn’t bother him
at all. The cold silence of the room, the man dead at his feet, the
needle now dangling out of his left thigh, none of it was worrisome
in the slightest. Not knowing how or even if he was going to find a
way out didn’t cause the slightest concern.
In fact, his face was stuck in a wide, happy grin,
as the waves of warm hot pleasure began spreading from his thigh.
He felt great, better than he’d ever felt before. And knowing that
it was that black liquid that had done it to him, that was now
spreading its malignance through his bloodstream, it just made him
smile all the more, because he felt fan-fucking-tastic.
“Sullivan… ” he whispered softly, into the dark.
“Somebody… need a little help here.” And then giggled, because he
couldn’t help himself.
And that was the most horrifying thing of all.
Whispers in the dark. He’s not really hearing them,
he’s not really hearing anything, there’s nothing but his breathing
through the rope. His mind has travelled along the line up and out
of the miasma of pleasure the drug forced on him and lies somewhere
near the roof beams of the warehouse.
How did he know there was a warehouse?
He knows all the warehouse now,
from where he is on the top of the rope. There’s not much room up
here, certainly not enough for coherent thought, but that’s ok, he
can just be up there, not having to think about the what he’s been
through, what he’s done, what the future ( daughters, what about… ) may hold,
he can just be there on the rope. Far away from that person down
below, swaying against the tension in his arms, trying to keep his
legs from buckling underneath him.
His shoulders are starting to ache, but that’s a
good thing, because it’s not pleasure, it doesn’t feel good, and
that’s wonderful. He’s tired of feeling good, and would like to be
able to truly feel as crappy as he knows his body has earned. But
there’s still that drowning tide of nebulous pleasure that coats
him like oil, and is so very, very slow to drip off…
Whispers again, turning to shouts.
He doesn’t want to think, because thinking is hard when he’s on the
rope, and if he has to come down the rope, he’ll lose this nice
sense of being, of not having to worry about what comes next. Then
he feels the hands on his body, and suddenly he is aware of steel
approaching, of someone slicing suddenly into the rope, and he
moans a soft protest. Too late, the tails lose their tense life and
slither down the side of the beam to thud
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